


Big damn hero

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:45:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is back from Purgatory and his clothes are too tight and Sam's acting bizarre. It isn't an issue until it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big damn hero

 

Of course the first job back is shaping up to be a disaster, and not because Dean is off his game. No, it is precisely because he spent the last four months battling monsters in a very medieval sort of way in the forests and marshes of Purgatory that is the problem; he is way too built now, so his suit is tighter than it should be.

He tugs at his pants a little, adjusting the way they stretch across his thighs. Jesus, they haven't even left the motel room yet.

But if the only repercussion of his time away is being an action figure like Sam, Dean isn't going to complain. And it's not too noticeable, just noticeable in that he has to give up on the suit jacket, which stretches across his shoulders too tightly for complete ease of movement should something attack. He settles on rolling his shirt sleeves to the elbow. His arms feel constricted but not uncomfortable.

When he opens the bathroom door, Sam is leaning against the wall next to it, which means Dean has to steel himself against his own brother for a second, which in turn makes him pissed, regretful.

He rolls his eyes and moves past, and Sam, predictably, follows. "You sure you want to...."

"Yes," Dean says, "For the last time, Sam. I can handle a boring job."

"No, I got it." Sam grabs his jacket and a folder. "Just doubting your acting skills."

"Dude, you probably don't remember, but I am an amazing actor. This shit's Emmy-worthy."

Only after a second does Dean note what he's said. Fucking time paradox. To him it was months, but to Sam it was five minutes. Less, maybe. Sam's eyes skitter away.

"You can be the lawyer if you want," he tells Dean a minute later, after Dean's pulled on his shoes, guiltily. "Your pants are really tight."

"Shut up."

"No, I mean, you look like more of a douchebag."

Dean stands. Sam is smirking. Dean's missed this, wanting to hit Sam and kiss him. A lot is asked of him.

"Get the damn car, Sam."

Sam is driving, which is annoying but just as well. It is a junker. Baby is parked five miles away in a copse of trees off the highway for when Dean has time to look her over. He'd been in Purgatory long enough to realize that one should not waste one's life settling for less.

 

 

 

In the interrogation room, Dean slams a first onto the tabletop and Mr. John Larsen nearly jumps clean out of his skin — which is possible, if you're dealing with skinwalkers, which, incidentally, Dean has been for months. They rove in packs there.

Not today, though. Here, on Earth. Missouri City PD's purported serial killer is one-hundred percent human, flesh and blood, a real mainstream guy who probably doesn't even believe in ghosts.

"Ghosts?" the guy wibbles. "What the hell are you talking about." But Larsen's eyes don't meet his. Oh, really?

"You apparently believe in burning down people's houses, though," Dean says.

"N-no."

Larsen is quivering like a leaf. Dean doesn't want fear, though, he wants Larsen to stand up to him, tell Dean what really happened, crazy as it sounds, or ask for a lawyer.

"All this is going on the record," Dean says. "Everything you say can be used against you in a court of law."

It's heavy-handed, but works.

Larsen raises his chin, even if he balks a little when Dean clenches his jaw. "I'd like to speak to a state-assigned lawyer. I have rights?"

Dean stands. "Yeah, sure you do."

He steps out of the room, door clicking shut behind him. Sam is just outside, leaning along the wall, watching the proceedings through the one-way mirror.

"You're up," says Dean.

Sam idles, hand one pocket of his slacks. "We'll give it a second."

"All right." Dean looks him over one, out of the corner of his eye, too stupidly greedy at the sight of his brother these days. Sam's here, for real. He looks like a real lawyer ready to talk to the condemned, but the detached asshole kind, not the kind he'd probably expected to end up as. He's sipping at a cup of coffee with two creams, hair combed back and, when Dean looks up, is examining Dean's face, too. Sam opens his mouth to speak, say something cheesy maybe.

Dean cuts him off. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

"What am I doing?"

 _You're trying to ask me if I'm okay_ , Dean wants to say, _you want me to cry and let you put me back together but that's not how this works_. Never has been, never will.

When Dean doesn't speak, lets it hang, Sam pushes past him, handing off his coffee. Dean feels a congruent swoop in his gut.

Sam heads in and he and Larsen shake hands, Dean watches all this through the glass, as Sam hikes a chair up to the table and leans forward, earnestly, born to deceive or just grown into it. A natural.

Dean takes a sip of coffee and then feels uncertain about the contents. He can do without the cream, and the sugar's far too rich. He's been eating charred to rare meat for the last however long and some things just don't sit right after that. It's normal.

Dean tugs on the material of his slacks again, too tight, watching Sam. He hadn't meant to leave him. He agonized about that forever. And one night, while holding a wendigo shank, blackened from a damp campfire that kept threatening to flicker out, Dean had finally come to terms with how in love with Sam he was. A guy is honest with himself sometimes, especially in the dark and especially on the brink of death. Honesty, it happens. But here, back in the real world and standing on this side of the glass watching, Sam looks just the same. He's Dean's. It sloshes around in Dean's chest, makes him feel paralyzed.

Dean realizes he's standing so close his breath is fogging up the glass. He looks both ways down the hall, but it's empty. No one there to see the smile, how Dean is tentatively happy, even if he is a creep.

This whole thing is funny. He watches while Sam talks smoothly with Larsen, who tells him exactly what happened, relief on his face. It is painless, Larsen spilling out a story in quiet tones. It was a spirit then, good.

As if on cue, there's a sudden commotion down the hall, the ruckus of officers realizing their wanted man's gotten loose. Dean raps on the glass and Sam looks up, seems to see right through the mirror Dean is almost tricked into believing. Sam says a few words to Larsen, whose eyes are almost brimming with tears of gratitude. Sam gets up and leaves him there for the police to find.

Dean jerks his chin. "Gotta book it."

They make it down the hall and around the corner at an exhilarating stride, thinking act normal. They're down the nexy hall in twenty seconds, out into the lobby in a minute, all smooth marble floors of the offices of the law.

When they're to the front steps, outside, Sam shucks the jacket and slings it over a shoulder. Hot stuff. Dean fumbles his sunglasses that he's got hooked in the V of his button-down. He picked them up for eleven dollars at a Gas 'n Save two days ago. Sun stripping him raw, the upended nausea of being. He notices Sam's steps are matching his one for one and it suddenly freaks him out on a deep-seated level, in a flash, and he has to actively remember Sam's not something unknown, hunting him, trying to be quiet about it. Sam deserves better than this.

If Sam notices Dean's jumpy, he doesn't say anything. He does, however, put a hand on Dean's shoulder as they pass to the car. Smiles at him when Dean looks up. It isn't normal. It's freaking Dean out. Freaking him out but grounds him, too, that pressure inside his head suddenly waved away. His heart picks up further.

"Food?" Sam asks, still smiling all benevolent while Dean's chest is panging.

"Nah, we've got some stuff back at the motel."

Sam shrugs. "All right."

 

 

 

They don't have much back at the motel. Road food is out, because it's just a week after Dick was killed and the corn syrup is still tainted. And vegetables make Dean's skin crawl. There're a couple bags of beef jerky on the table, though. He throws himself onto a bed, hand already in the bag. He'll live on beef jerky. Beef jerky and beer. That sounds good.

He puts his head onto the pillow, eyes closed for a second. When he looks up, Sam's scissoring the slats of blinds apart to look out into the parking lot. He salts the windows for good measure while Dean watches. Until Dean gets more pushed into the pillows, closes his eyes, piece of beef jerky in his mouth.

"Dean?"

"I'm fine, Sam." The argument slightly muffled and ultimately undermined by the pillow he has over his face.

"No, I know." He feels the mattress dip and Sam's leaning up against Dean's bent knee. Different.

Dean doesn't say what he's thinking. Instead he says, "We'll head out to the house at midnight or something. I'm gonna pass out for a while."

"Right." Sam sits there. The seconds tick by. Sam asks, "You ever heard the term 'the lady doth protest too much'?"

Dean opens his eyes just to narrow them. "Yes."

Sam shrugs.

"Don't try to trick it out of me," Dean tells him. "I saw you with that dude, I know your tricks. You can't lawyer me."

"I'm not," Sam tells him. He tries to look mean. "Actually, I don't even care if you're fine."

Dean snorts. "Liar."

Sam mutters, "Yeah, well, I'm too pissed to care."

"Huh?"

Sam puts a hand to Dean's knee, almost tentatively, looking, yeah, pissed. some that flash of something dangerous rolls through Dean's gut. Hope, like some kind of sickness.

"Okay," he says, drawing it out. He rolls off the bed to his feet. "Shower."

He makes it there, but Sam catches the door. Dean turns, about to tell Sam to back off about this, ready for a fight, but suddenly Sam's standing at his full height.

"No. Keep it open."

"Man doesn't shower for five months, he deserves as many fucking showers as he wants."

"Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes but tamps down on whatever next comment when Sam looms more.

"Look," Dean says, feeling that guilt rack up again. He left Sam. He hadn't meant to. It's eating him alive, maybe. "I get you're pissed. You've been looking at me all weird since I got back, I knew something was going on, but..."

"Five worst minutes of my life," Sam tells him.

"Huh?"

"Prayed to god to bring you back." Dean gets backed against the sink, Sam saying, "Told myself I'd do anything, that I'd....Then you get back, looking like that."

"Sam, dude." He has his hand on Sam's chest accidentally on purpose because the kid's just right there.

Sam leans in. "And your pants are too tight."

Dean laughs, because it's Sam, but it's hot for the same reason.

Sam says, right up against his ear, "Believe me, I noticed. It's real fucked up, I know. I'm keeping you in sight. I blink and then you're gone."

Dean thinks, works for him. He grabs ahold of Sam's tie and jerks him so they're nose to nose, pulls him down to his level, which is almost a freaking foot because he'd kicked his shoes by the bed and Sam is already a giant.

"That really what you're pissed about?" Dean asks. "Missed me?"

Sam's face breaks into a smile, which is adorable up close. "Yeah. So I'll just stand here while you shower if that's all right with you."

"Creep," Dean says, Sam's hands spanning his waist, everything right in the world.

The kiss is pretty much awesome.  



End file.
